


singing baby, come home.

by lucifucker



Series: baby, come home [1]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Cancer, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Character Death, emotionally constipated gabe saporta, is that a trigger thing?, its not graphic cancer, lowkey cancer, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:58:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Patrick and I had a lot of time, to prepare for this moment.” The meticulously constructed stained-glass window in the back of the church is framing Pete where he's standing on the podium, and Gabe can see the ghost of tear tracks on his cheeks when the light hits him the right way, but he doesn't stop.</p><p> </p><p>or</p><p>I watched ps i love you and love actually and got really sad and wrote the saddest fic i've ever written</p>
            </blockquote>





	singing baby, come home.

“Patrick and I had a lot of time, to prepare for this moment.” The meticulously constructed stained-glass window in the back of the church is framing Pete where he's standing on the podium, and Gabe can see the ghost of tear tracks on his cheeks when the light hits him the right way, but he doesn't stop. “Some of his requests, for instance, that I should bring Mikey Way as my date to his funeral, I'm pretty sure he wanted me to ignore.” Pete laughs, just for a second, a little pained and a little bitter, and Gabe can see his eyes start to water again. “But—but others he was pretty, um. Pretty confident about.”

 

Gabe can feel his chest starting to tighten as he looks up at the casket, shining bright and polished under the soft sunshine that drifts through the windows, and when he looks back up Pete's looking at him, like he's hoping for something, some kind of support or strength or help that Gabe wishes to god he could give him, but can't.

 

“When—when Patrick first mentioned—what we're about to do, I told him, I said 'over my dead body' and he--” Pete breaks off, for a second, and smiles again, but this time, it looks almost real. “He said, 'no, Panda, over mine'.” He looks down, and Gabe's struck by the line of his shoulders, the way Pete's managing to keep his body upright even though even Gabe himself barely can, and feels something strange and painful start to coil in his stomach. “And, as usual, my—sweet, sweet asshole was right, so—so, he's not gonna say his last goodbye through me, but, inevitably, ever--” Pete has to stop, and Gabe has to fight the urge to jump up and grab him, fight through every piece of himself that's saying _go_ and _hold_ and _help_. “Ever so cruelly, through the immortal words of Elvis Costello.” 

 

Pete picks up the little remote on the pedestal, and turns around, pointing it behind him, and the TV screen set up above the casket lights up with a photo of a baby that can only be Patrick, chubby cheeks and bright green eyes, and as Pete turns back around, the abrasive, nasally voice of Patrick's all-time favorite starts drifting through the church, echoing off the back walls and the high roofs. 

 

Pete steps down, and it's about then that Gabe remembers why he's sitting in the front row, and stands up, getting a little bit of head rush and steadfastly ignoring it as he takes his place next to Joe on the opposite side of the casket, curling his fingers around the metal handle he's thought too long and too hard about having to lift up. 

 

_He's a fine figure of a man, and handsome too_

 

Pete's in the front, opposite Kevin, and across from him Gabe can see William's hair falling into his eyes, and a glimmer of wetness on his jaw. Brendon finally comes to stand behind William, eyes fixed resolutely on Pete in the same way Gabe's were, and Pete turns back to them, his face drawn. 

 

“On three?” His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, and they all nod. Pete presses his mouth presses into a tight line. “One, two--” They lift, and Gabe's less surprised by how hard it is to carry than he is by how unsurprised he is. It's poetic, he guesses, that the physical weight of carrying Patrick away from here doesn't feel as heavy as the weight of Patrick being gone. 

 

_And I hope you're happy now_

 

As they take the steps down to the aisle, Gabe meets Ryland's eyes from where he's sitting in the pew, and wonders if they're going to be able to remember what happy feels like, after this.

 

_And I know that this will hurt you more than it hurts me_

 

The edge of the casket digs into his shoulder, and as he presses his ear against the side of it, he can almost imagine it's Patrick singing. 

 

He's not sure if that makes it better, or worse. 

 

–

 

It's raining, by the time they get to the cemetery, a soft pitter patter against the top of the limo, which Patrick hadn't wanted, but his dad had insisted on. 

 

“If I'm going to bury my son,” He'd said, back straight and stiff where he'd sat next to the hospital bed, “I'm going to do it right.” 

 

Patrick hadn't argued after that. 

 

Thankfully, they've got enough umbrellas to double up, and when Gabe gets out, he pulls William with him, arm around his slim shoulders to pull him close under his. Joe and Kevin share one, and Pete and Brendon take the last one, with their fingers firmly linked, arms pressed tight together like they're ready for battle, and Gabe wonders if maybe every day from here on out will be a battle for Pete. 

 

The grave is simple, a square headstone, black marble, with the engraving 'Patrick Martin Stumph, beloved husband, son, and friend. 1984-2014' etched into its smooth surface. Gabe moves his arm down to hold William by his waist, and feels him let the taller man take some of his weight, leaning into Gabe the way he knows Pete is leaning into Brendon right now.

 

There's no eulogy. Patrick had been very, very adamant that Costello be his eulogy, and even if he weren’t, there are no words, for this. They stand there, in the wet, and the cold, and the pain, and watch the coffin as it's lowered into the ground, sparkling under raindrops like sequins, and as the dirt is piled back on, two men with solemn faces and dirty jeans who have probably done this same job more times than they can count, for families and friends much more catatonic than they are.

 

Gabe thinks about how much he hates saying goodbye, and how much he hates saying it to Patrick, and doesn't cry. He thinks about the sound of Patrick's laugh, right up until the end, and the way he still smiled like sunshine even when it was going to be over so, so soon, and Gabe doesn't cry. Gabe can't, because William is, and when he squeezes him closer, William's body starts to shake against his.

 

The last of the grave is packed down, now, and the guys back off, heading for whatever little golf cart they have to get them around the cemetery. Pete hands Brendon the umbrella, and steps forward into the rain with his shoulders slumped, and in all his depression and bipolar and drugs and recoveries, in every moment of every pain Gabe's watched Pete go through, he's never seen him look _defeated_ before now.

 

The ground is mostly mud, sopping wet and probably seeping into Gabe's shoes, but Pete sinks down to his knees, anyway, and as much as Gabe wants to go to him, he knows that now isn't the time.

 

Now is time for Pete, and Patrick, and there might have been time for this before, but this feels more like an ending than anything else.

 

Pete's whispering something, Gabe can't hear what, and maybe it's better that he can't, better that this is just for Patrick to hear. He moves, and Gabe sees a flash of something bright, and silver, before Pete's pressing his palm down onto the soft, fresh dirt of the grave, and getting up, brushing his hand off on his jeans. Patrick had wanted everyone in their sunday best, because “It's my funeral, and if I want you well-dressed, you'll be well fucking dressed, Wentz.” but Pete hadn't been able to find any actually black suits, so he's wearing his cleanest, best fitting pair of black jeans, a black button up, and a black blazer. Kevin had suggested that Pete wear one of Patrick's suits, but they all knew that wasn't going to work, so they'd gone for this.

 

They all turn away, after another second of staring, and Gabe's stomach drops out as he does, because it doesn't feel like walking away from a body, it feels like walking away from _Patrick_.

 

He glances back over his shoulder, as he's helping William back into the car, and his eye catches on a figure standing at the edge of the cemetery, by the trees, black suit jacket over a white dress shirt, and a shock of red hair, and he stops, for a second.

 

Gabe doesn't need to get closer, doesn't need to put his glasses on to know who it is, and they stand there, for a minute, looking at each other from across the clearing. Pete hasn't noticed, is saying something to Joe about 'parents are gonna come after, wanted to be alone with him' and some part of Gabe wants to grab him, to point, and shout, and run over and _drag_ Andy back over here, but he doesn't.

 

He kisses William's forehead, mimes to Pete that he dropped his phone, and walks back out, away from the road, meets Andy in the middle, right next to the grave.

 

Andy's eyes are red, and puffy, and his face is hidden under that ugly-ass beard, but Gabe knows that if he could see it, it'd look about as good as William's does right now. He's wearing a black tie, and a blazer that's at least a size too big for him, and the line of his shoulders is tensed like a guitar string.

 

“He needs you.” It's the first thing Gabe's said, today, and his voice is rough, and cracking as he says it, one hand curling into a fist at his side. Andy bows his head, and looks at his shoes, and Gabe shakes his head. “I know it hurts. I know. But he needs you.”

 

There's a long, thick silence, where the only sound is the rain and the faint voices in the car, and then Andy nods, and takes a small step forward. Gabe steps out of his way, and Andy turns to look at the grave for a moment, hands resting a little awkwardly in front of him, thumbs in his pockets.

 

“I can't, yet.” His voice is as soft, and as light as it ever is, and when Gabe looks up, he's looking right at him, piercing brown eyes wide and sure. “Soon.”

 

Gabe grits his teeth through his desire to tell Andy to _stop being such a fucking selfish prick_ , but makes it, because really, Andy doesn't deserve it, and if he thinks he needs time, he probably does. Pete cries, Joe sleeps, William screams, and Andy needs ttime. He nods.

 

“He's staying with Bill.” The word stick in his throat a little, because the fact is that all the time to prepare in the world didn't make it okay, and Pete still can't look at the master bedroom in the apartment without breaking down. Andy nods back, and reaches out, wrapping his arms around Gabe's waist, and lets Gabe pull him close, holding him as tight and as hard as he can.

 

They part, and Andy walks away, back toward the woods, and when Gabe gets back in the car, Pete turns around the seat toward him.

 

“Who's that?” There are dark circles around Pete's eyes, and hard lines around his mouth that Gabe knows won't go away for a long, long time, and he blinks, and shrugs.

 

“Some cousin. I guess he came early.” Pete nods, and looks out the window. Gabe does the same, but Andy's gone.

 

They drive away, and it's not until they're out of the cemetery gates that Gabe realizes that the thing Pete pressed into the dirt was his wedding ring.

 

–

 

The apartment is still a mess, because Pete's never been good about cleaning up after himself, and toward the end Patrick was too tired to fix it, and had kind of stopped caring. There's a pair of Pete's jeans draped over the TV in the living room, and some of Patrick's records are splayed out over the floor by the old crosley turntable that Patrick's carted with him from Chicago to LA and back again, like someone was sitting there, going through and listening to them, and there's a whole closet full of vinyl, but these are special ones. Dean Martin's Greatest Hits, Louder Than Bombs, Kind Of Blue, fucking Get Happy.

 

Gabe picks those up first, while William putters around, gathering shirts and socks and pairs of Patrick's boxers that six months ago he would have bitched and moaned for hours about having had to touch. There's one record still in the player, and when Gabe turns it on, Morrissey's soft, breathy voice flows out of the ancient, weathered speakers Patrick probably got from his fucking dad. Asleep. Nice.

 

William stops for a second, with his hand on the doorknob of the closet, and then keeps going, hanging up a couple of blazers, before stopping, pulling them back off, and throwing them back onto the floor.

 

Gabe blinks, and watches as he does the same with three dress shirts, a bundle of ties, and four pairs of fancy-ass wing tipped shoes, which all go in a pile to the right of the couch.

 

By the time they're done, they've got three piles, one of clothes that absolutely belong to Patrick, blazers, dress pants, fancy leather belts and enough ties to probably make into another fucking suit, a pile of clandestine brand t-shirts, hoodies, and jeans that definitely belong to Pete, along with some uggs, a few ugly-ass furry vests, and some shitty beanies, and a pile in the middle of mixed heritage that neither of them can figure out.

 

“Why does Patrick have so many fucking ties?” William whined, and collapses onto the couch, feet propped up on Gabe's lap, one arm dangling down so his fingertips brush the carpet. “Thin ties, thick ties, bowties, fucking—fucking _bolo_ ties, Gabey.” He picks his head up, and raises his eyebrows. “Bolo ties.”

 

Gabe thunks his head back against the couch and sighs.

 

“Maybe this is what happens when you're dying.” He moans, and rubs his hands over his face. “You just—collect ties. They just get magnetized toward you or something until you're just coated in ties.” William reaches over and pats his arm.

 

“We can ask Pete if--” William breaks off, abruptly, and Gabe can feel him stiffen, slightly, next to him. He looks down, and William's staring at him, wide eyes and tight jaw, and it's second nature for Gabe to open his arms and William to curl upward into his chest, pressing his face into Gabe's shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist.

 

They're quiet, for a while, and the album ends, the only sound the soft crackling of the turntable before it switches itself off, and Gabe closes his eyes, and tries not to think about how it feels to be in a room full of ghosts.

 

–

 

“Joe says I'm becoming a recluse.”

 

“Joe's probably right.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Gabe shrugs, and pokes at a crouton on his plate while the waitress refills their glasses. Pete's hair is starting to grow out, and his roots are showing, dark brown at the bottom of bright, almost white blonde.

 

“You look like you have frosted tips.” Gabe comments, and Pete kicks him under the table.

 

“Maybe that's why I'm becoming a recluse.” He says dryly, and takes a sip of his coke. “So nobody sees my fucking frosted tips.”

 

“Good reason.” The smell of William's apartment is strong on Pete's clothes, and his dark circles have not even slightly improved, and there's a little, tiny bit of grey around his temples, barely visible with the blonde, but when he laughs, it looks real, it _feels_ real, if only for a second. So, naturally, Gabe has to ruin it five fucking seconds later. “Has Andy called?” Pete's face falls, and his eyes drop down to stare at their plates.

 

“No.” He mumbles, and Gabe kicks himself inwardly, and also Andy, because seriously, it's been two weeks.

 

“Sorry.” One of his croutons is nearing the edge of his plate, and without thinking about it, he nudges it over onto Pete's, like gifting him with a small square of pan-seared bread is going to make up for his dead husband and absent best friend. “Do you want me to--”

 

“No.” Pete says again, and spears Gabe's crouton, shoving into his mouth with a vengeance. “He'll—he always turns up. Sometimes it just takes longer.” Gabe nods, and Pete nods, and they're quiet for a second, until Pete looks up. “How's William?” Gabe blinks.

 

“You're living with him.” Pete kicks him, again.

 

“I mean, how are _you_ and William.” Ah. Yes. Of course. This.

 

“We're not—Pete, come on.” Pete's eyebrows shoot up, and immediately that fucking smirk that Gabe didn't know he missed like a limb until he saw it again is spreading over his face.

 

“Divulge, Saporta.” He hisses, and jabs at Gabe with his fork. “C'mon, my husband died, give me something.”

 

“Is that a thing, now?” Gabe asks his salad. “Is that a thing you can use? The dead husband thing is a thing?”

 

“You bet your ass it's a fucking thing.” Pete steals another crouton. “Now, tell. I know you guys were, like, almost doing the thing, kind of, right?”

 

Gabe shrugs.

 

“Yeah, almost, but then, y'know.” He makes a vague motion with his hands. “Everything...happened, and it...we haven't...talked about it.”

 

“Listen, you jolly green fuckin' giant, this has been _ten years_ coming. Don't fuck it up now just cause--” Pete breaks off, and Gabe snaps his head up to find that there's no joke in his expression, now. Pete's eyes are downcast, and his shoulders are stiff, again, and Gabe feels his throat start to tighten, because they can joke about it, yeah, and they can poke at the wound, but it's still bleeding.

 

“Pete--”

 

“Do something about it.” Pete says, abruptly, not looking up from his plate. “Just—please. You guys should be together. I'm the one who's a widower, not you.” This time, when he does look up, there's something real, and sincere in his eyes, something that usually isn't there, even now, and Gabe can't fight the impulse to reach out, and take Pete's hand. “You don't—have to carry it all. You don't.” 

 

_But you can't_ is what Gabe doesn't say. 

 

_But I have to_ is what Gabe doesn't say. 

 

_But what else am I supposed to do?_ is what Gabe doesn't say. 

 

“Okay.” 

 

–

 

“Pete?”

 

“Patrick.” 

 

“Right.”

 

“Pete?”

 

“Pete.” 

 

“Great.” 

 

Gabe tosses another t-shirt into the rapidly growing Pete Pile, and watches Joe do the opposite with the vest he's holding, placing it neatly on the meticulously organized Patrick Pile (folded and organized by type). Joe looks, in a word, tired, his movements slow, and a little heavy, and it's palpable, the space next to him where Andy should be. 

 

“You okay, _chico_?” Gabe asks, even though he knows the answer, and Joe smirks, and shrugs. 

 

“Are you?” His eyebrows are raised, and it looks almost like a joke, but so does everything Joe says. “Are any of us?” 

 

There's not really much to say to that, and Gabe nods, and goes back to sorting. They sit there, in silence, for a few minutes, but it's not awkward, just quiet. Eventually there's the soft pad of William's feet, and he walks back inside, carrying a cardboard box that looks like it's about heavy enough that only William would think it was heavy. 

 

“I found photo albums.” He says, blankly, like he's shocked, and drops the box on top of the middle pile. Joe immediately reaches for it, dragging it closer to him on the floor, and pulling the top book out. Gabe shuffles closer, and does the same with the next one, and William folds himself up on the couch above them, looking over their shoulders. 

 

He opens the album, and the first picture he sees is an old polaroid of Gabe, Patrick, and Travie, arms around each other, and laughing like they've just heard literally the funniest thing that could ever or would ever be heard. Gabe doesn't remember that night, or what they were laughing at, but he remembers the sound of Patrick's voice, and the warmth of his arm around his waist. 

 

William squeezes his shoulder, and he looks over at Joe, who's staring at his own page, looking down at a fresh 8x10 of him and Patrick wearing “club sandwiches, not seals” hoodies. It's from some event they went to, and Patrick must have gotten it printed on photo paper after finding it online, because it looks fresh, and new, but the Patrick and Joe in the picture can't be more than nineteen. 

 

Joe's staring at it like he's just been sucker punched, and Gabe remembers, because sometimes it's easy to forget, with all the PetePatrick and JoeAndy, that Joe's known Patrick since he was sixteen. 

 

There are tears in Joe's eyes, and Gabe can feel his own starting to well up, so he reaches over, and turns the page for him, and immediately, they all laugh, because the next photo is of Pete, Patrick, Joe, and Andy at some birthday party nine or ten years ago, all wearing shirts with each other's names. 

 

“That—that was Pete's idea.” Joe chuckles, and nods, turning the page again to find another picture from the same night. “He said it'd be uh—I don't even remember what he said, it was some bullshit.”

 

The next full hour and a half is spent rifling through photo album after photo album, spreading them out over the floor and looking through every one, every picture of Patrick and his parents, every old disposable camera developing strip. The albums are packed, spilling out and into other ones, and they're organized vaguely by year, but not very well, so as they go through Joe pieces them back together, delicately sliding papers and photos back into place and arranges them by date, because no matter how much he complains about being an old man with no memory, he's literally always lying, and Joe remembers those years better than anyone, except maybe Patrick. 

 

So, now, better than anyone, period. 

 

They make it through, okay, no giant breakdowns or hardcore tearfests, right up until the last album, the one at the very bottom of the box. By now, there's a neat stack of binders piled up next to them, thankfully not color coordinated even though Joe had whined about wanting to go get new binders and transfer the photos into them so they could be. 

 

The last album is marked 'Pete+Rick wedding, 2010' and as soon as Gabe sees it he knows this one's going to hurt. William slides down onto the floor between him and Joe, and the touch of his arm against Gabe's is the only comfort he can find as Joe opens the book up in front of them. 

 

This one's less new and clean than the others, and it leads Gabe to believe that his wedding photos were the first things Patrick decided to scrapbook, carefully laid out and fit together, and Gabe thinks Joe would be happy about how well assembled it is if it weren't for the pain in his eyes. 

 

The first picture, right off the bat, is one of Pete and Patrick, foreheads resting against each other, grinning like they've never been this happy before and honestly, they might never have been. Patrick's fingertips are resting against Pete's cheek, and he's biting his lip, and Pete's eyes are closed, tight, like he's halfway between laughing and crying (it was both, he was doing both, Gabe was there, Gabe remembers). They're both in their tuxes, Patrick's is white, Pete's is black, and Pete's hair is a little mussed up, like someone (Patrick) had been running their fingers through it. 

 

It's perfect, a perfect snapshot of a pretty perfect day, and it makes Gabe's chest feel empty, and hollow. The next picture isn't better. It's one of Joe, laying languidly across a bench with his head in Andy's lap, before back problems and broken ankles and abdominal surgeries, when Joe still  _could_ drape himself over things, and would. Andy's fingers are in his hair, and he's looking down at Joe like he's seeing the sun for the first time, smiling just the littlest bit and resting his free hand on Joe's chest like he's afraid  _not_ to touch him. 

 

Joe reaches out, and smooths down the edge of the paper, for a second, and then shocks both Gabe and William by tearing it out of the book, ripping up the paper underneath it as the glue that held it in place comes up, and crumpling the little sheet of photo paper into a ball and throwing,  _hurling_ it at the wall, as hard as he can, and for the first time, Gabe can see that pain, and fury, and stress at Andy not being here that he's been waiting for with baited breath. 

 

Because Gabe knows Joe, has known Joe since he was sixteen, grew up watching that kid get in all kinds and shapes of trouble, but Joe doesn't get mad. Joe doesn't get angry. Joe doesn't shout, and throw things, and freak out like the rest of them. Joe sleeps, and Joe calms, and Joe sits with people and makes sure they're okay, but Joe doesn't get mad. 

 

Except now, he's breathing hard, and staring at the wall where the picture had hit it, eyes wide, and so fucking  _hurt_ , and William rests a hand on his shoulder, and squeezes gently. 

 

“Take a minute.” He murmurs, and Joe takes another deep breath, and nods, pushing himself slowly up off the floor. He has to hobble, a little bit, because his back really still isn't what it used to be, but he makes it out of the room, and they can hear his footsteps as he heads out the door. 

 

William leans over, and rests his head on Gabe's shoulder, and Gabe kisses the top of his head, before turning another page. 

 

“He'll be okay.” William says, softly, and Gabe snorts. 

 

“Not until Andy gets back, he won't.” William bites his lip, and nods, slowly, and continues on through the book, stopping on a picture of the two of them. It's taken from behind, a picture of them standing they almost always do, with Gabe's arm around William's waist, and William pressed close against his side. William's fingers are linked with Gabe's over his ribs, and they're looking at each other, faces less than an inch apart, and there's the littlest ghost of a smile on William's lips, and naturally a giant fucking donkey grin spreading across Gabe's face. 

 

“Remember this, _querido_?” Gabe murmurs, and when he looks over, William's stifling a grin, hair falling over his forehead and hiding his eyes, and when Gabe reaches up to tuck it back behind his hear, he turns toward him. 

 

“Yeah.” He breathes, and Gabe's suddenly very, very aware of the fact that they're practically imitating themselves in the photo, noses almost bumping as they look at each other, and Gabe's been carrying a weight on his shoulders for three weeks that he couldn't explain, but with William this close, he feels almost like he could fly. 

 

Except this time, Gabe's not turning away, and Pete's not shouting his name, and Travie isn't dragging William toward the dance floor, and it's not  _ending_ . Gabe looks at William and William looks at Gabe and there's a moment where everything in the world stands still, and then they're kissing. 

 

William's lips are soft, and a little chapped, and they've only kissed once before, three weeks ago but it still feels like coming home. Gabe's hands hover over William's chest, like he's afraid of losing and afraid of having and afraid of holding and afraid of letting go, and as William's knuckles graze over his jaw, something gives. 

 

They cling to each other like this is going to make all the pain go away, like if they kiss long and hard and deep enough, it'll all feel better, and it doesn't, but it helps. 

 

Gabe draws back, and rests his forehead against Williams, and William laughs, really, really laughs, for the first time in weeks. 

 

“Well, that took a while.” Joe comments dryly from the doorway, and they spring apart like kids at summer camp, but he's grinning that patent lopsided Joe grin. 

 

It's not fixed, but it's something. 

 

–

 

“We found your wedding photos, today.” Gabe says as Pete sits down next to him on the couch, handing him the popcorn. Pete can't sleep, again, so they're marathoning Star Wars in the hopes it'll bore him to death from seeing it so many times. “Joe got...pissed.” 

 

“About my wedding photos?” Gabe shakes his head, and Pete takes a handfull of popcorn. 

 

“Um—no, there was one of him and Andy and he just--” 

 

“He does that.” Pete cuts him off, and Gabe blinks. 

 

“Does what?” Pete shrugs. 

 

“He—Andy's really the only thing that he gets mad about.” He smirks, and shrugs. “Andy and me, sometimes.” 

 

“Why?” The credits are starting to roll, but Pete turns the TV down until it's barely audible. 

 

“Cause it's harder to be calm when it's someone you're in love with, kind of.” He jerks his head to the side. “Or me, I guess.” Gabe doesn't say anything, so Pete keeps going, looking resolutely at his feet. “It's—I think that, it's—it's always been Andy, for Joe, you know? Since we were kids. Kinda like how it's always been Bill for you?” Gabe nods, and Pete picks up a piece of popcorn and starts breaking it up into little pieces. “And—and it's always been Joe, for Andy, even before it was Andy for Joe. Andy's always...even before they were...dating, Andy's been looking out for Joe, you know?” He shrugs, again. “And it's—it's like. Andy spent a lot of time, when we were younger, taking care of Joe, and..and being...gentle, with Joe, in a way that, like. Me and Patrick kind of weren't, cause I was—fucked up, and Patrick was fucked up, and Joe's the youngest, so it was just...Andy.”

 

“But why--” Gabe starts, and Pete slaps his chest to shut him up. 

 

“So since then, it's—it's been a struggle, for Joe, to get Andy to let him take care of him, too. And I think...Andy just...disappearing, is...I mean it'd be hard for him anyway, I mean, I'm pissed too, but that's. The reason, kind of.” 

 

C-3PO and R2 are having mild panic attacks on the screen, and the room smells like butter and burnt popcorn because Pete still can't use a fucking microwave right after thirty five years, and Gabe nods. 

 

“Did—did Patrick ever do that? Not let you help him?” He's not wondering if he's like that, absolutely not, that would be absolutely ridiculous. Pete bites his lip and tilts his head to the side, looking contemplative. 

 

“I mean--” It's the first time they've really talked about it, and it should feel huge, but it doesn't. It just hurts, a little, like an old ache in a broken bone. “Toward the end, he had to. There's only...so much you can insist on doing for yourself, with stage four lung cancer.” Gabe swallows, thickly, and doesn't think about the way Patrick's breathing had been, toward the end, with the fluid in his lungs and the choked, rasping cough. “So, in a way, he had to, but. Yeah, there were...before...that, there were times when he needed me but wouldn't...let me, kind of?” 

 

Gabe licks his lips, and resolutely watches Leia sending her message to Obi-wan instead of looking at Pete. 

 

“Did...you get pissed at him?” Pete pauses for a minute, and then looks up, and stares at the TV.

 

“I'm still pissed at him.” He says plainly, and shakes his head. “I'm...I'm so fucking angry, at him, for leaving me, and for not—taking better care of himself, when it mattered, and—for—letting me fall in love with him and then fucking _dying_ \--” His voice cracks, and he has to stop, and Gabe finally tears his gaze away from the screen, and looks at Pete, really looks at him, at the curve of his back under his hoodie, and his hands where they're sitting in his lap, like he doesn't know what to do with them, anymore. 

 

Gabe waits a second, and then puts the bowl down on the floor, and opens his arms, which Pete crawls into without any hesitation, curling up in his lap, his head pillowed against Gabe's chest, and as Gabe strokes his fingers into Pete's soft, freshly shampooed hair, he feels his eyes start to sting. 

 

“You okay?” Pete asks, and Gabe nods, and squeezes them shut, until the feeling goes away.

 

“Yeah.” He murmurs, and rests his cheek against the top of Pete's head. “Yeah, _perfecto_.” 

 

–

 

“Do you think he would have hated me?” Gabe asks one night, when they're naked and suitably fucked-out for the evening, and William raises his eyebrows. 

 

“Who, Trick?” Gabe nods, and presses another kiss to William's jugular, palms pressing against his hips. William shakes his head. 

 

“No, I don't—I don't think so.” William's fingertips are stroking across the hair at the back of his neck as he ghosts his lips over his clavicle and chest, and Gabe wishes they could forget everything else and only have this. 

 

“He hated all your other boyfriends.” William shrugs, and his thumb slides down over Gabe's jaw as Gabe continues to map the planes of his ribs. It's not sexual, not really, Gabe's too tired to do anything, but he wants to learn this, to learn William. 

 

“Yeah, but you were different. He loved you.” Gabe looks up, and props his chin on William's stomach. 

 

“He wouldn't have threatened me with a slow painful death for hurting his little adoptive music sibling?” William grins. 

 

“Well, I didn't say that.” 

 

Gabe presses his face into William's side, and closes his eyes, and pretends his chest doesn't still hurt. 

 

–

 

Being with William is, surprisingly, easy. It's everything else that's hard. 

 

It's been ten days since the funeral, and they haven't even gotten to the master bedroom, yet, still fixated on the living room and the closet and moving everything that belonged to Patrick into boxes so Pete doesn't have to look at it again. It's a weird process. There's a life, here, that they built together, art that Pete picked out hanging on the walls and colors and trimming that Patrick painted himself, and it's  _theirs_ , it's a  _home_ , and it feels almost criminal, to be taking pieces of it away. 

 

Some days, they're fine, and Gabe can crack jokes, and William can laugh, and Joe drops in and out, but spends most of his time dragging Pete around Chicago going record shopping and clothes shopping (which should be a really good indicator of how much Joe loves Pete, because Joe  _hates_ clothes shopping) and basically keeping Pete as occupied as he can, because honestly, none of them are sure what's going to happen to Pete if he stops moving. 

 

But other days, it's not as easy, and Gabe will walk into a room to find William clutching something of Patrick's to his chest, sobbing like if he pours every bit of Patrick out of himself he'll come back. 

 

And if there were anything to say, Gabe would say it, but there isn't. There are no words for this. There's nothing that can fix Patrick being gone, forever. 

 

So he sits on the floor, and pulls William close, kisses over his forehead and his cheeks and his lips and doesn't cry, because William needs to cry. William needs to cry, and scream, and slam his fists against Gabe's chest because he's  _gone_ . Because he  _left_ . 

 

Gabe doesn't cry, because William needs him. 

 

–

 

“Can you tell Nate that--”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, take all the time you need.” Gabe sighs, and sinks down into William's couch, shakes his head, slowly. 

 

“There's—never really gonna be enough time.” He can see Ryland nodding without having to be there, can see the drawn expression he's wearing, and the sympathy in his eyes, and a part of him misses home. 

 

“Yeah, that's...that's fair.” Gabe rubs a hand over his face, and imagines Ryland's shrug. “Well, we'll be okay, here, for—well, y'know. However long it takes, y'know?” Gabe nods. 

 

“Miss you.” He croaks, and Ryland chuckles, softly. 

 

“Miss you, too, ya giant homo.” 

 

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Suarez-Blackinton.” 

 

“Whatever, at least William's not carrying my balls around in his coat pocket.” Gabe grins, and wishes Ryland were here so he could punch him. 

 

“Ah, fuck off.” There's a beat, and then. “I'll come home, soon.” Ryland takes a deep breath, and if Gabe closes his eyes, he can imagine him right next to him. 

 

“Love you, asshole.” He murmurs, and Gabe smirks. 

 

“Love you, too.” There's a click, and the line goes dead, and Gabe drops his phone unceremoniously on the floor. 

 

“Ryland?” Brendon asks from the doorway, and Gabe looks up, and nods. Brendon looks at the floor and shuffles over, sitting down at the other end of the couch, his ass a little on top of Gabe's feet. 

 

“You gonna go back, soon?” He asks, and Gabe shakes his head. 

 

“I told him it'd be a while.” Brendon nods, again. 

 

“Probably a good idea.” There's nothing left to say, so they don't say anything. Eventually, Brendon relaxes back into the couch, and reaches for the remote, and they watch Rick and Morty until they both fall asleep, half on top of each other, stretched across the couch. 

 

When Gabe wakes up, his head is in William's lap, and William's fingers are in his hair. He grins, and turns, pressing his face into Bill's stomach. 

 

“Mornin', Bilvy.” He hears William's grin as he kisses his forehead.

 

“Mornin', Gabey.” 

 

–

 

It's Pete's last night at William's, and Gabe makes a traditional New Jersey lasagna, but not really, because traditional Jersey lasagna has about ten different kinds of meat in it, and Pete became vegetarian when Patrick stopped being able to stomach meat and never went back. They all sit at the table, and Brendon makes the drive from Vegas to spend the night. He hasn't been living here, like Gabe, but he's been a pretty regular appearance. 

 

It's nice. It's family. It's the five of them sitting around a dining table and eating dinner and drinking red wine and Pete popping the top specifically so it hits Gabe in the face. It's like home, almost. 

 

Pete eats Gabe's lasagna even though it's wetter than it's supposed to be, and William pulls ice cream of questionable origin out of his freezer which they dig into with a gusto they're probably too old to have about ice cream of questionable origin. 

 

Joe's sitting back in his seat, and he's wearing a tank top, for the first time in weeks, laughing and taking sips of wine he probably doesn't even like that much, but still so  _happy_ . Brendon sits next to Pete with his arm around Pete's shoulders, and Gabe's reminded of a time, ten or so years ago, when it was the opposite, when Brendon was more vulnerable, looked younger, than Pete, and when it was Pete drawing Brendon close and grounding  _him_ . 

 

“Man, you remember back in, like...it must have been 05', or 06', Patrick had those fucking _sideburns_ \--” Gabe starts, and Brendon laughs. 

 

“Who could forget the sideburns? They were iconic. People from all around talked about the sideburned barista.” He shakes his head. “I kid you not, I got people to come to the shop just to look at the fucking sideburns.” 

 

“Hey, hey.” Pete interjects, and for half a second, Gabe's afraid he's upset, but he's grinning. “I fell in love with those shitty sideburns, okay? Don't knock the sideburns.” 

 

“The hat.” William mumbles into Gabe's shoulder where he's falling asleep against it, and Joe snorts.

 

“Right, don't forget the bingo hat. Where the fuck did he get that?” He yelps when Pete kicks him under the table. 

 

“You gave it to him you pile of trash.” Brendon laughs, his shoulders shaking and his head thrown back, and Gabe watches as Pete and Joe start having some kind of small kickfight under the table. 

 

There's a knock on William's front door, and since Gabe's pinned by William, Pete goes to get it. 

 

Gabe doesn't even think about who it could be until he hears a voice, and a  _“fuck you”_ and then the hard, loud slam of the front door, and the thump of Pete's feet as he runs up the stairs. Bill's head shoots up, and Joe stands, immediately, at the same time Gabe does, but Gabe moves faster.

 

He's down the front hall and at the door in a second, and when he opens it his stomach clenches. 

 

Andy's clean-shaven, and his hair is close cut and neat like it was before Patrick got really badly sick, and he's standing on the front step with his hands limp at his sides, and his shoulders a little slumped, and Gabe can't do anything but step aside and hold the door open as he comes inside. 

 

Andy walks slowly, and as Gabe follows him in, he stops in the archway between the front hall and the dining room, frozen in place. Joe's still at the end of the table, eyes wide, and entire body tensed like he's about to jump across the table, and tackle Andy. 

 

They stand like that for a minute, with Andy standing stock-still in the hallway, and Joe staring him down over the table, and it feels like something's breaking, like something's being crushed in front of Gabe's eyes, because Andy's been _gone_ since Patrick died, gone without a single text or call, and this is  _wrong_. This isn't right, this isn't how it's supposed to be. This tension, this distance, between Andy and Joe feels as wrong as it would between him and William, because they're  _supposed_ to be together. It's supposed to be Andy and Joe, always, till the end, it's supposed to be the way Gabe watched Andy crouch down next to a seventeen year old Joe and hold his hair back while he threw up into a toilet, not because he was drunk, but because the panic was keeping him from taking breaths. 

 

There's a pause, and a silence, and then something breaks, something gives, and Joe's all but running around the edge of the table, and Andy's striding forward, and they're holding each other, with Andy's arm around Joe's waist, and his hand in his hair, and Joe's face buried in the crook of Andy's neck, holding him as tight as he can, fingers fisted in his shirt like he's afraid he's going to disappear, and Gabe's pretty sure it's because he is. 

 

Brendon must have followed Pete upstairs, because it's just the four of them, Joe, Andy, Gabe and William, and as Gabe moves around the table, and sits back down, William reaches for his hand. Their fingers thread together, and as they watch, Joe pulls back and kisses Andy, long, and hard, and desperate, like he's drowning and Andy's his only source of air, and it's a shitty cliché but Gabe's never seen a better place to use it. 

 

“Don't leave.” Joe gasps, when they part, shaking his head and reaching up to cup Andy's face in both hands, pressing as close as he can while Andy does the same. 

 

“I'm sorry.” He whispers, and rests their foreheads together, and Gabe has to look down, because this feels more intimate than kissing. “I'm here, I'm sorry.” 

 

“I love you.” Joe's breaths are coming up ragged, and pained, and Gabe has a flash of fear that it's another panic attack, even though Joe hasn't had one since he was twenty, but Andy kisses him, again, and his shoulders unwind, a little. 

 

“I love you.” He murmurs back, against Joe's lips, and William squeezes Gabe's hand. “I love you.” 

 

And really, what else is there to say?

 

–

 

In summary, a lot, actually. 

 

After about another fifteen minutes, Andy heads upstairs, and Brendon comes down, sitting at the table next to Joe, whose entire body is more relaxed, now, than it's been in weeks. Brendon's face is drawn, more serious than it usually ever is, and William keeps bringing Gabe's hand up to his mouth and running his lips over his knuckles, like it's calming him down, which it might be. 

 

There's a shout, definitely from Pete, that sounds something along the lines of  _you were supposed to fucking be there_ , and something soft, from Andy, that none of them can make out, and then a crash, and then nothing. 

 

Gabe looks at Joe, and raises his eyebrows, a wordless  _you gonna go up there?_ and Joe shakes his head.

 

“This is all them.” He mutters, and shrugs, reaching for the bottle of wine, again. “Sometimes they need to...do the Pete and Andy thing. Especially now.” 

 

It's another ten minutes of quiet and faint sobbing that makes Gabe's entire body strain toward the stairs before Pete and Andy come downstairs, Andy with his arm around Pete's waist, like he's supporting part of his weight, and Pete's face red and puffy, tears still trickling out of his eyes. 

 

They stop in the doorway, and Pete sniffs, softly, and looks up at them, his expression pained, and vulnerable. 

 

“Guys...” He shakes his head, and looks down. “Guys, I'm not ready to go back.” There's no pause, between Pete's voice breaking off, and all of them getting up, its like one fluid moment. Pete stops, and Joe, Brendon, Gabe, and William all stand in synchronicity, and walk around the table, wrapping themselves around him like a cocoon, and as they all thread themselves together, Pete laughs, wetly, and presses his face into William's chest. 

 

“Panda,” Joe says, softly, his voice as tender and careful as it can possibly be, his thumb stroking over the back of Pete's neck in smooth circles. “It's time.” 

 

Pete's face twists a little as fresh tears start to pour, and he lets out a strangled sob, but nods, fingers curling tightly in the front of Brendon's shirt. 

 

“C'mon, Petey-pie.” Gabe murmurs, and shifts away, tugging gently at his hand. “Let's go.” They're not supposed to go back until tomorrow morning, but it's time, Gabe thinks, and apparently Pete thinks so, too, because he wraps an arm around his stomach, and follows Gabe, heading for where their shoes are piled by the door. 

 

Gabe drags him closer, and presses a long kiss to the side of his head. 

 

“I got you.” He mumbles, and squeezes Pete's shoulders, and doesn't think about the ball rising in his throat. “I got you, Pete.” 

 

–

 

The apartment is perfectly clean, and now completely devoid of Patrick's clothes, which seems to help, a little, as Pete tentatively steps over the threshold. The records are all back in the right order, Joe made sure of that, and the box of photos is in the bottom of the closet, along with Patricks Gretsch, which they hadn't wanted to get rid of. Pete's laptop bag is propped against the side of the couch, but Patrick's is gone, emptied and given to the salvation army, not that Pete needs to know that. 

 

As Pete makes his way into the apartment, and as Gabe watches him, it reminds him of those scenes in movies where people walk through graveyards, and it occurs to him that really, no matter how much of Patrick's stuff they get out the apartment, he'll still be here. 

 

Pete trails his fingertips over the leather arm of the couch, and then the frame of the door to the kitchen, as he walks, slowly, toward the bedroom. Gabe follows a little behind him, and Joe, Andy, Bill, and Brendon spread out around the room, each finding a place watching Pete. It's dead silent, nothing but the sounds of the refrigerator and the soft pad of feet on the ugly shag carpet that Patrick never got around to getting rid of. 

 

Pete pushes the door to the bedroom open, and steps inside, and Gabe waits a second before following him, keeping a safe distance as Pete steps forward and smooths down the comforter on the meticulously made bed (thanks, Joe). He sits down, slowly, spreading the fingers of both hands out over the bedspread, relearning it without Patrick there, under it, and Gabe moves forward, stepping around the other side, and sitting down on the opposite edge as Joe follows him, sinking down to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the closet. 

 

Andy joins him, there, and Bill moves around to settle next to Gabe, curling up with his feet tucked up against himself and his knees against his chest, and Brendon sits down beside Pete. 

 

It's prolific, in a way, the six of them, there, in a room full of Patrick, but still aching with his absence, sitting in silence like a group of battle-broken warriors coming home for the first time, and it's that thought, the thought of the six of them feeling this  _together_ , that makes the floodgates open.

 

The tears are hot, and wet, and they trickle down his cheeks without any chance of being stopped. William sees first, and his soft, sharp intake of breath makes Pete turn, and look at Gabe, with one knee drawn up against him and the other folded under him, crying in his best friend's bed. 

 

“Gabey...” Pete croaks, and moves closer, reaching for Gabe the way he has for years, and Gabe does the only thing he knows to do. 

 

Falls forward into Pete, and presses his face into the crook of his neck, and sobs, feels the heave and shudder of Pete doing the same against him, hears, more than registers the sounds he's making, unintelligible noises that he stifles in Pete's jacket, while William's fingertips stroke up and down his back. 

 

Gabe hasn't cried since before Patrick died, since the day he found out about the cancer, sitting in a cafe in Jersey and talking to Pete on his shitty, dying iPhone, but now that he's started, he can't stop, and honestly, he doesn't have it in himself to try. 

 

There's a dip of the mattress as Andy climbs up, and he slowly realizes that there are now six of them on the king size bed, crying king size tears, but fuck it, who cares? 

 

Patrick's gone. There's nothing left to do  _except_ cry, now. 

 

“I miss him so much.” William manages, every word strangled, and pained, and Gabe faintly hears Brendon's choked voice from his left. 

 

“Me, too.” 

 

“Why'd he do this?” Pete whimpers, and Gabe holds him, if possible, tighter. “Why'd he do this to us?” 

 

No one has an answer for that. 

 

 

 

** Six Months Later **

 

“Stop fucking with it.”

 

“I'm not fucking with it, I'm fixing it, it's not--”

 

“That, right there? That's _fucking_ with it, stop--”

 

“Gabe—“

 

“ _Puta--”_

 

“Children!” The flurry of slapping hands stops, and they both turn to look at William, who's standing with his arms crossed in the doorway, and his eyebrow raised. “Pete, your tie is fine. Gabe, stop slapping Pete, he has an actual job, unlike you.” 

 

“I have a job!” Pete scoffs. 

 

“Groomsman is not a job.” 

 

“It's a job.” Gabe turns to look for help, but the only people there are William with his judgy eyes and Pete with his best man-ness. “Fuck off. It's a job.” 

 

“How's Joe?” Pete asks William, who shrugs. 

 

“Your job, not mine. Go find out.” Pete rolls his eyes, and walks out, swatting William's ass as he does, and as the door shuts, William steps closer, adjusting Gabe's tie. 

“Oh, so _his_ tie was fine, but mine's a problem.” William smirks. 

 

“No.” He murmurs, and smooths his hands over the lapels on Gabe's jacket. “I just love you in a suit. You haven't worn one, since...” He trails off, and looks down, and Gabe reaches up, and tucks a lock of hair back behind William's ear. 

 

“No, none of that.” He says softly, and ducks his head, catching William's lips in a quick, sweet kiss. “Only happy tears, today. Andy and Joe are getting married, you can cry when they do their vows, not before then.” 

 

William laughs, just a little, and kisses Gabe again, his hands sliding up so he can coil his arms around the back of his neck. 

 

“I love you.” He whispers into the space between them, and Gabe grins. 

 

“ _Te amo_ , Bilvy.” 

 

There's the distant sound of a crash, and then Pete shouting, Joe screeching, and Brendon laughing like a maniac, and Gabe feels a flutter of something like hope in his chest. 

 

In some strange miracle, they all make it to the ceremony, and up to the altar, although 'altar' is a pretty loose term, considering they're in Andy's back yard at the Milwaukee house, and instead of a priest they got Hayley to get ordained.

 

Andy's dad has been gone for a long, long time, and his mom is a little too frail, at this point to walk him down the aisle, and they had always joked, back in the day, about how Patrick would do it, so, true to form, Andy walks himself, holding a framed photo of Patrick, and Gabe has to clench his jaw to keep himself from bursting into tears right then and there. 

 

Andy hands Pete the frame, and Pete bows is head as he takes it, and as Andy takes his place in front of Joe, holding out heavily inked hands that Joe takes with a giant, stupid grin that Gabe is so, so happy to be able to see. 

 

“Dearest family, friends, and animals,” Hayley begins, and looks down at Louis where he's curled up on the ground next to Mixon. Matt nudges him with the toe of his shoe, and the bulldog huffs softly. A soft laugh spreads through the crowd, and Hayely grins as she continues. “We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Thing One,” she tilts her head toward Joe, “And Thing Two.” and then toward Andy, and they both duck their heads and beam at each other. 

 

Gabe smirks, and looks over at Pete, holding the mahogany frame to his chest, wearing a purple tux and a really genuine smile as he looks at Joe. His hair's full black, again, but along with that comes a sharp contrast for the grey that's settled in around his temples. He wears it well. It figures that Pete would be the first one of them with greying hair and fucking rock it. 

 

The dark circles under his eyes are gone, and there's less of a sunken look to his cheeks, like he's been eating better, which he has, Gabe would know. The pain is still there, under the surface, and as Joe starts to do his vows, the smile starts to disappear, and Pete's mouth presses into a tight line, and Gabe realizes that maybe he's not the only one holding back tears. 

 

“Y'know when...when we first started going out, Patrick told me I had to be careful.” Joe says, slowly, his fingers curled tightly around Andy's. “Because when you're the glue holding someone together, it's easy to fuck it up and break them again.” He ducks his head, and swallows, thickly. “I—I wish he were still here, because then he'd—tell me what to say, right now, instead of the stupid thing I'm gonna say,” Andy giggles, and the corner of Pete's mouth twitches, and Joe's grin is all-encompassing. “I don't know if I'm your...your glue.” Andy's smile fades, and he swallows, thickly, as he nods. “But—but I'll be yours, if you'll keep being mine. For as long as you want me.” 

 

Andy sniffs, and leans forward like he's going to kiss Joe, but Hayley shoves her hand between them and he gets her palm instead. 

 

“Hey, _hey_ , I did _not_ say the kissy part, yet. Your turn, Hurley. Spit it out.” 

 

Andy scowls at her, but nods again, and leans in close, his lips against Joe's ear, and whispers something, a lot of things actually, words that are probably deep, and meaningful, and are definitely just for Joe. 

 

He draws back, and there are tears in Joe's eyes, starting to spill down his cheeks, and Andy manages a watery smile as he looks to Hayley for direction. 

 

“Do you, Andrew John Hurley, take this blubbering mess of a human to be your husband, to love and to nurture, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?” Andy squeezes Joe's hands. 

 

“I do.” 

 

“And do you, Joseph Mark Trohman, take this ugly, bearded mountain man to do all the stuff I just said to him but the other way around.” Joe makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, and nods. 

 

“I do.” 

 

“Then by the powers vested in me by the state of Milwaukee and the very grumpy little lady at the DMV, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss the...other...old...tattooed man.” She finishes, but they're already a step ahead of her, arms around each other and clinging tight, and Gabe watches Pete laugh, still holding the photo of Patrick close, the way he probably would if he were still here, and, in a way, it feels like he is. Like even though he's gone, he's never really left. 

 

Maybe he hasn't. 

 


End file.
